


As Real As Can Be

by PleaseDontGetMeRescued



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Angst, But it's definitely not canon, Canon divergent maybe, Car Accidents, Drugs, Guns, Kavinsky just really loves Proko and doesn't know what to do without him, M/M, Oral Sex, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Swearing, Temporary Character Death, i don't know what this is, whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 08:30:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9376835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PleaseDontGetMeRescued/pseuds/PleaseDontGetMeRescued
Summary: “How the fuck are you here.”Proko dropped his arm back to his side.  A bit of water sloshed over the side and fell to the scratched hardwood.  He looked nervous, rubbing his fingers together like he always did.“You know how.”“I’m dreaming.”  It was the only possible scenario.  Prokopenko was dead.  This wasn’t real.“No,” Proko said.“Yes.”  It had to be true.“I’m a dream, but you’re not dreaming.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what this is. A plot bunny got away from me. I really should have been writing me real book but Prokopinsky has been keeping me up at night lately. So, sorry.
> 
> Please heed the tags.

 

By the time Kavinsky was finally able to force his eyes open, the clock read 1:37 p.m. and Prokopenko had already been up for hours.  Kavinsky could hear the steady turning of book pages from the other side of the bed.  With a low groan he rolled onto his side to gaze upon the other boy.  He was radiant in the early afternoon light, leaning against the headboard with his hair bright white in the sun.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Proko muttered with a smile, never taking his eyes from his book.

“It’s afternoon.”  Kavinsky nuzzled into Proko’s hip, wrapping an arm around his waist and closing his eyes again.

“I’m surprised you noticed.”

Kavinsky bit at Proko’s hip.  “Fuck off.”  He pulled the book from the other boy’s hand and tossed it aside. 

Latin.  They had a test tomorrow.

“I was reading that,” Proko said, ignoring the way Kavinsky kissed up his bare stomach, his ribs, his chest, his neck.

“Forget about it,” Kavinsky muttered into Proko’s skin, biting down on the juncture between shoulder and neck.  Proko whined.

“Some of us actually need to study, you know.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“K,” Proko said, somewhere between a groan and a sigh.

“You’ll be fine,” K said again, and took hold of Proko’s mouth with his own.

Proko always made the sweetest sounds.  High up in his throat, breathy and whiney and needy, just the way K liked it.  The sounds never failed to send sparks down Kavinsky’s spine, set his blood boiling. 

He sucked on the thin skin of Proko’s neck, making certain to leave a mark for every boy, teacher, and worker at Aglionby to see.  Proko was _his._

Proko could do nothing but fist his fingers in K’s hair.  Not pulling, just holding, as if he’d fly away if he didn’t hold onto _something_ tight.

Kavinsky climbed up Proko’s body, planting himself firmly in the other boy’s lap.  With a hand on either side of his neck, thumbs running smoothly over sharp jaw, Kavinsky kissed him long and slow.  Proko’s mouth was so warm, wet, and perfect that most day’s K couldn’t help but be rough with him, fuck his tongue into Proko’s mouth, bite his lips, pull his hair.  But today something felt different.  He took his time, gently probing with his tongue until Proko was a squirming mess underneath him, shifting his hips up and forward in a desperate search for friction. 

“Easy, baby,” K said, pulling away.  Proko whined but Kavinsky had a good feeling that he would like what was coming next better. 

He pushed Proko’s sweatpants down and off, settling between his legs.  “ _Fuck_ , K,” Proko said, before Kavinsky even had his dick in his mouth.  “Please.”

But K waited, teased.  He traced the careful line between Proko’s thigh and groin with his nose, taking in the musky scent.  He pressed kisses to his hips, traced his tongue down his length.  He flicked the tip with his tongue lightning fast, and Proko’s hips jerked against the bed.

“It’s okay, baby.  I’ve got you.”

And he did.  The though jerked Kavinsky back to awareness briefly.  When had he become like this?  Proko was turning him soft.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Kavinsky swallowed the dick in front of him whole, taking Proko down to the base and sucking him hard and fast. 

The thought of turning soft, of become weak, set off firecrackers in Kavinsky’s brain.  He was a motherfucking Kavinsky.  Kavinskys don’t get soft.

So he tried to be rough with his boy.  He held Proko’s hips against the mattress with rough fingers, gripping hard enough to bruise.  He held him in his mouth without moving for seconds that seemed like forever until Proko was crying out, begging for him. “Please, K.  Move.  Do something.  Anything.  _Please.”_   And K pulled off, looking up from under his eyelashes as he blew gentle gusts of air against Proko’s spit-drenched dick. 

That sent off a whole new round of crying.  Proko’s eyes were wet, making them all the bluer.  He was flushed all the way down his chest.  Sharp blotches of pink marked his sweet face, open and desperate for release. 

The image sent K over the edge.  He closed his eyes and sucked Proko’s dick back down, moaning around his length.  Shuddering gasps echoed around the room, reverberating through K’s ears and sending shockwaves down his spine.  He humped against the mattress desperately, like some goddamned 13-year-old.  That just wouldn’t do.

He pulled off of Proko again, ignoring his confused whine, and walked on his knees up to meet him.  He pushed his own sweatpants down just past his ass.  The insides were sticky with precum but he’d worry about that later. 

Fisting one hand in Proko’s blond hair, he shoved his tongue down the other boy’s throat, letting him taste himself.  K took both of their dicks in his other hand, jerking them together.  Proko let out a loud shout, making Kavinsky glad his mother never strayed from the other side of the house, and was probably too doped up to know the difference anyway.

Kavinsky worked them together, jerking them rough and fast.  Sweat dripped down his temple and dropped onto Proko’s chest.  Kavinsky licked it off and gave their dicks another good squeeze, twisting on the upstroke.  Proko groaned, high and desperate, his head flinging back against the headboard with a loud smack.

“Jesus,” K said, using his unoccupied hand to feel the back of Proko’s head for a bump.  _Soft_ , the voice in his head said again.  He ignored it.  “Are you-”

“K, _please_ ,” Proko begged, still thrusting up into K’s hand. 

“Alright,” he said, stroking them with renewed vigor.  “It’s alright.  I’ve got you.”

And as if he’d said the magic words, Proko came, eyes rolling back in his head, spraying warm cum across his own chest and Kavinsky’s hand.  The image was a work of art and K followed after only a few more strokes, cum mixing with Proko’s on his chest.

Kavinsky collapsed into the bed beside Proko, waiting for his high to calm down to a low buzz before pushing up, pressing a quick kiss to the other boy’s cheek, and heading to the connected bathroom for a wet cloth.  He knew full well how much his boy hated being sticky. 

He carefully wiped Proko clean before tossing the rag to the floor, where if fell between an empty Nino’s box and half dozen discarded beer cans. 

With less grace than he cared to admit, Kavinsky flopped back onto the bed beside Proko, who immediately rolled to his side and pressed his face to K’s chest.  “Needy fucker,” K grunted, running his fingers along Proko’s spine.

“You like it,” Proko whispered, as if someone else might overhear and become privy to the fact that Joseph Kavinsky was a secret cuddler.  Still, K didn’t deny it.

“What should we do today?” he asked.

“The day’s already half gone.  I need to study for Latin tomorrow.”

“No you don’t.”

“Yes, K.  I do-”

“Let’s go somewhere,” Kavinsky interrupted him.

A brief moment of silence fell.  Kavinsky could hear a lawnmower going in the far distance.

“What?”

“For a drive.  Just you and me.”

“K-”

Kavinsky leapt from the bed, pulling on underwear he assumed were clean and a pair of jeans that definitely weren’t.  “You hesitated.  Get up, baby.  We’re going for a motherfucking drive.”

Prokopenko groaned, but Kavinsky could hear the smile behind it as the other boy climbed out of bed in search for some clothes.

 

.

 

As they made their way down one of the many long, straight, deserted, seemingly never-ending roads of Henrietta, Kavinsky couldn’t help but let his eyes stray from the road perhaps more often than he should. 

He could feel Proko’s gaze upon him.  There, relaxed in the passenger seat, feet up on the dashboard and hair rippling in the wind from the open window, he looked like an angel.  The sun hit his soft blue eyes just right, making them shine.  Kavinsky had to kiss him.

“Come here,” he ordered, stretching his neck out over the console.  Proko came obediently, meeting him halfway for a short peck before pulling away again.

“Eyes on the road, you maniac.”  Kavinsky laughed and pushed at Proko’s propped knees jokingly. 

With the sun on his cheek and the wind through the window Kavinsky felt warm. 

He’d felt lucky for the first time in a long time when he found Proko, and that feeling had resonated deep in his chest every day since. 

Kavinsky pulled off onto the side of the road, kicking up dust.  “Come here,” he said again, suddenly desperate to see Proko spread out on the hood of the Mitsu for no reason other than he could. 

Once again, Proko followed, meeting Kavinsky at the front of the car.  K took his shoulder and pushed him back against the hood until he got the idea and hopped up.  The car was warm through the fabric of Proko’s ripped jeans.  He spread his legs and Kavinsky took his place between them, fingers immediately finding hair and mouth immediately finding mouth. 

They kissed for what seemed like forever, content to just feel this instead of pushing past.  Kavinsky had one warm hand underneath Proko’s shirt, just resting on the smooth skin of his back.  It was slow and breathless and perfect. 

Kavinsky felt like he was floating.

 A prick of something like annoyance tugged at the back of his mind.  He found his thoughts straying, once again, to his family name.  Kavinsky’s weren’t soft.  They weren’t weak.  And they were almost never happy. 

But K was.  Every day he spent with Proko and their friends he felt something growing inside him that he’d never had before.  A deep-seated happiness that tangled like ivy around his ribcage and squeezed in a warm embrace that felt like contentment.  He felt happy.  And he was desperate to keep that feeling.

Kavinsky pulled away from Proko’s needy mouth and pulled a pair of shining silver capsules out of his pocket.  “What are those?” Proko asked, eyes wide and wanting.

“Just something to keep this feeling going,” K replied.  He’d dreamed them up a few months ago.  In his mind he simply called them happy pills, as they truly did nothing more than make the user feel light-hearted and pleasant; calm. 

He put one pill on his tongue, and watched as Proko followed the movement.  He closed his mouth and swallowed, bringing the second up to place on his tongue as well, before leaning back in to capture Proko’s mouth.  He felt Proko take the pill, swallow, and kiss him back with renewed vigor.

The pleasant buzz that inhabited them before seemed to kick up a notch.  It didn’t make them horny or manic happy, just amplified their feelings to a warmer, floatier level. 

They stayed like that for minutes, maybe hours, before pulling away.  Kavinsky laid down on the hood next to Proko, who leaned against the windshield.  The sun was getting lower, but still cast out a warmth that seemed to resonate through their bones and chests. 

They didn’t say anything.  They didn’t have to.  Kavinsky stared up at Proko, his lips swollen from kissing, his hair ruffled.  He was a vision.

“K?”  Kavinsky made a noise of acknowledgement.  “I really need to go study.”

Kavinsky groaned and rolled his eyes.  “Alright, smarty pants.  Get in the car.  You want to study?  I’ll get you there in no time.” 

They climbed into the car and Kavinsky was taking off before Proko could barely get his seatbelt done up. 

Kavinsky had driven drunk before.  High as a kite, fucked up off of whatever he could find, racing past the speed limit like Death himself was on his heels.  But this felt different.  The happy pills made him feel like he was flying.  And he wanted to go higher, faster.  He stomped down on the gas pedal, sending both of them back into their seats with the force. 

“K, slow down!” 

Kavinsky laughed and turned in his seat to look at the angel next to him.  “We’re flying, baby!”

Proko’s eyes went impossibly wide then.  “K, watch out!” he screeched, searching for anything to grab onto.

K looked up just in time to see he had swerved into the other lane and another car was coming dead on.  He jerked the wheel hard, sending them off the road.

Glass shattered.  Metal shrieked.

Darkness came.

 

.

 

When he woke up everything was bright and his skin felt ten sizes too small.  He tried to groan at the overall ache in his body, but his throat felt like sandpaper. 

The boys rested on the side of the bed.  Swan with his legs thrown over the arm of his chair and his head leaning against Jiang in the seat next to him.  Skov was passed out on the floor leaning back against the chair legs.  They were all asleep but still look tired, dark circles marring their under eyes.  Kavinsky wondered where Prokopenko was.

He didn’t bother waking the boys up, instead presses the call button on the bed.  He was in a hospital, he realized.  But, his head was foggy and pounding.  He didn’t remember a thing.  What seems like eternity was nothing but a careful black void he couldn’t see into.

A nurse came in, young with blonde braids.  She gave him a pitying look before going about taking his vitals and asking how he felt.  The doctor will be in momentarily, she’d told him, and left.  The noise must have woken the boys because next thing he knew Swan’s arms were around his neck while the other two stood worriedly behind him.

“Jesus, K.  We were so worried, you asshole,” Skov said, his voice groggy from sleep.

“What happened?”

“You’ve been out for three days.  A coma,” Jiang said patiently, eye downcast as if he couldn’t bring himself to meet Kavinsky’s gaze.

Swan pulled back from the hug but Kavinsky grabbed his wrist harshly.  “What.  Happened.”

“You crashed,” Skov answered simply.  His eyes looked wet and that set Kavinsky off into a panic.

Bits and pieces came back in an instant.  Kissing Proko, feeling on top of the world, swallowing a pill, taking off toward the house.  A cry.   Panic.  Darkness.

“Where is he,” Kavinsky demanded, feeling the words get stuck in his throat.  Beside him the heart monitor started beeping erratically.  His heart felt like it was trying to claw his way out of his chest.

“K, calm down,” Swan begged.

“Where is he?  Where’s Proko?” 

The room was a blur of light and voices and noise and he couldn’t take it.  He wanted quiet.  He wanted Proko.  He wanted to be back, curled up in his bed, together, warm and safe and -

“Mr. Kavinsky, please settle down,” a new voice said, deep and older.  More mature.  “Please don’t panic.  Everything is alright.”

It wasn’t.  Something was wrong.  He could feel it.  His face was sweating and his chest was aching and his head was pounding and he felt like he was dying.  He needed to see Proko right now.  Where is he?  Is he alright?”

“Proko!  Where’s Proko?  Where is he!”  He couldn’t catch his breath.

“K,” Jiang said, eyes sad.  “He didn’t make it.”

The world went impossibly silent for a second.  Two.  Three.   And then it exploded into chaos.  Kavinsky roared, loud and savage, shoving doctors and nurses and his friends away with impossible strength.  He ripped the IV from the crook in his arm and leapt from the bed. 

His head went fuzzy but he scrambled for the door as the entire room of people piled after him. 

He fell to his knees, tackled by Skov and Jiang.  They pinned him to the ground and Swan pressed his face up close to Kavinsky’s.  “I know,” he said, barely a whisper.  “I know, K.  I know.  It’s okay.  We’ll be okay.” 

But he wouldn’t.  He managed to break and arm free and lashed out, decking Swan in the cheek and sending him flying back and away.  He couldn’t breathe.  The room was caving in.

The panic seemed to go on for another endless eternity before he felt a prick in his neck, fast and sharp.  The room instantly began to fade into nothingness.

“No,” he said, begged.  “No, no, please.  Proko.  Where’s Proko?  I can’t- I can’t.”

He was gone. 

 

.

 

Here’s what happened. 

Kavinsky had been distracted and high on dream drugs and Prokopenko.  Miles and miles of road, miles and miles of sweet, pale skin.  He couldn’t drag his eyes away.

Here’s what happened.

With his eyes off the road he had veered into the other lane.  A car was coming.  Proko cried out, warning him, and K reacted.  He jerked the wheel hard, sending them off the road. 

Here’s what happened.

According to the other driver, their car had rolled four times and landed on its hood. 

Here’s what happened.

Ilya Prokopenko was already dead before the paramedics could get there.

 

.

 

 

Kavinsky didn’t sleep. 

If the pain didn’t keep him awake, his own mind did.  He refused to rest.  He wanted to suffer.

He wanted to die.

He wanted to die like Proko. 

By some sick twist of fate Kavinsky had escape the crash with only 4 broken ribs, a moderate concussion, a busted lip, and a cracked eye socket.  The doctor said he’d be fine with time.  Kavinsky doubted it.

He drowned himself in booze, any he could find.  He drank it straight or mixed it with energy drinks or pills.  He raided his mother’s stash, desperate to feel either everything or nothing. 

The boys left him alone for the most part, gazed upon his sad broken form with murky, worried eyes. 

He didn’t rest despite the doctor’s urges for a lots of it.  The bruises had started to fade but the aches and pains stubbornly remained alongside the gaping hole in his chest, crying that something was missing. 

Something was.

When a week went without sleep, the boys had had enough.  They waited until Kavinsky took his medication, smoked a bowl, and fell into a near-catatonic state of staring at the wall.  He wasn’t asleep but he wasn’t awake either.  Unhearing, unseeing.  Just there.

The boys worked silently, creeping around the house and collecting every bottle of booze and pills they could find.  Then they poured it all down the drain. 

“He’ll be mad,” Swan whispered as they settled around the couch for the night.

“Good,” replied Jiang.  “It’s better he’s mad than he’s dead.”

By the time Kavinsky came back to himself the others had all fallen asleep, sprawled across the floor in a pile. 

Kavinsky needed a drink. 

He shuffled to the kitchen but stopped when he saw the line of empty bottles beside the sink.  He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached, clutched his hands into a fist until his bones creaked. 

He should have seen this coming.  Rage boiled in his blood, hotter and hotter until it exploded.  He slammed his fist into the kitchen wall over and over again. His breath came in pants, his chest heaving, until, finally, he slowed to a stop. 

Blood dripped down his knuckles and onto the floor.  His head throbbed painfully, but all he felt was tired and miserable. 

He didn’t like feeling. 

He wanted it to end.

He stalked past his friends, who remained asleep despite the noise, and pounded his way up the stairs to his room. 

The place looked the same as it always had.  Trash littering the floor, his and Proko’s clothes mixed together, thrown around the room.  The sight of it made him sick to his stomach.  It was all too much.

Maybe if he held his head underwater it’d all stop.  Maybe if he took a knife from the kitchen. 

The guilt was eating him alive.  Perfect, lovely Proko was gone and it was all his fault.  But more than the guilt, Kavinsky missed him.  He wanted to be with him. 

He spotted the bottle of Oxy the doctor had prescribed him on his bedside table.  Why his friends left this one behind, he didn’t know.  But it would have to do. 

Kavinsky opened the bottle with shaking hands.  There were only a few pills left.  He dropped down onto the bed, pressed his face against the pillow that now only barely smelled like Proko, and hoped the few pills was enough.

He swallowed.

 

.

 

Kavinsky didn’t know how long he’d been out for, but when he finally came to, the sun was out.  His entire body felt impossibly heavy and exhausted.

It took him a moment to realize that everything was the same.  His room was still a mess, his body still a wreck, and Proko was still dead.

But Kavinsky wasn’t.

_Fucking idiot_ , the voice in his head sneered.  _Can’t even kill yourself right.  Pathetic._

Kavinsky rubbed an exhausted hand down his face, feeling frustrated tears pricking at his eyes.  He ignored them, told himself they were from the pain, or the too-bright light.  Anything but weakness. 

He heaved a shuddering breath, then another, but stopped when he heard the bedroom door creak open. 

“Hey,” a sweet voice said.  It sounded like Proko, but Kavinsky knew better.  This was just his head fucking with him.  “K?”  He sat up.

And there he was, as perfect and whole as the day they met in the courtyard of Aglionby.

“What the fuck.”  It came out a whisper, as if it was any louder Proko would disappear.

“Your head must hurt,” Proko said, holding out a glass of water. 

“How the _fuck_ are you here.” 

Proko dropped his arm back to his side.  A bit of water sloshed over the side and fell to the scratched hardwood.  He looked nervous, rubbing his fingers together like he always did.

“You know how.”

“I’m dreaming.”  It was the only possible scenario.  Prokopenko was dead.  This wasn’t real.

“No,” Proko said.

“Yes.”  It had to be true.

“I’m a dream, but you’re not dreaming.” 

A beat.

Then panic.  “ _No._   Fuck!”  Kavinsky pushed himself off the bed and away.  He ignored his body screaming at him to _get closer.  Closer._ “What did I do?  What the fuck did I do?”

Proko came closer, hands extended out like he was talking to a scared fucking kitten.  He came closer and closer but didn’t touch, backing Kavinsky against the wall.  “You missed me, so you dreamed me.  And now I’m here.” 

“You’re not real.”  _He’s not real.  This isn’t real._

“I’m real, Joey.”

Proko moved to hold him, fingers poised at Kavinsky’s jaw.  But Kavinsky couldn’t bare it.  Couldn’t bare this imitation-Proko, so he said: “You’re not him.”

A deep flash of hurt blooms in Proko’s blue, perfectly forged eyes.  “Yes I am.  I’m him.  I mean, I’m me.”  He moved again, finally taking Kavinsky’s face in his palms.  “I’m real.  Or, as real as can be.”

“You’re real?”

“I’m real.”

And Kavinsky lunged.  He forces his way into Proko’s space, sealing their lips together in a desperate kiss.  It’d been too long.  A week was too long.  He thought he’d never have this again.  So he kissed deeper and deeper.

Kavinsky dragged his hands up under Proko’s shirt, pushing it off and away.  He buried his nose in the juncture of his neck.  He licked at his skin and down his chest.  Proko moaned. 

Kavinsky pushed him back towards the bed and down, ripping off the other boy’s pants. 

He needed to see, to touch every inch.  So he did. 

Proko, this Proko looked the same.  He smelled the same, he tasted the same.  Every detail was right: the soft upturn at the end of his nose, the smatter of freckles below his left eye, even the long scar down his back from when they’d hopped a chain-link fence and Proko’d gotten caught on it.  He was perfect.  A perfect forgery. 

Even the sweet sounds coming from his mouth were exactly right.  High and breathy and perfect as Kavinsky pressed into him with two fingers and sucked down Proko’s dick.  He cried high up in his throat, desperate as ever, until he came down Kavinsky’s throat with a bright moan. 

“Here, let me, let me,” Proko begged, reaching for Kavinsky’s erection.  But Kavinsky pushed his hands away.

“No.  Leave it,” he said, looking directly into Proko’s perfect blue eyes.  “Come here.” 

Kavinsky laid down on his back and pulled Proko on top of him so that every part of them was pressed together.  Proko laid his cheek against Kavinsky’s collarbone, and K turned his head, pressing his nose to the other boy’s hair and inhaling his familiar scent. He traced his fingers down the scar on Proko’s back, felt Proko’s heartbeat against his own.

“You’re real,” he said with a smile.

“I’m real.”

 

.

 

“I don’t know how the fuck you did it, man,” Swan said, sipping his beer and gazing at Proko, rosy-cheeked and smiling.  “But he’s back.  It’s like he never fucking left.” 

Proko was sitting on the floor in front of the flat screen.  Skov and Jiang were crowded around him on either side as they battle it out playing Mario Kart.  A red shell hit Skov, sending him into an explicit round of curse words.  Proko’s bright laugh reached Kavinsky’s ears as he remained undefeated for three straight years. 

After a moment Kavinsky’s smiled faded.  Something still didn’t feel right.

“Do you think I fucked up?”  He couldn’t meet Swan’s eye, staring down at his can of soda instead.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean is it an insult, or some shit?  To, like, his memory or something.”

“What the fuck does it matter?”  Swan’s voice dropped low and sincere.  “He’s our friend, K.  He was gone, and now he’s back.  Nothing has changed.”

“Hasn’t it, though?  He’s a dream thing.  I pulled him from my mind.  He’s not real.”

“Look at him,” Swan urged.  “He’s right there.  He’s as real as anything else.  And he might be from your head but he’s exactly the same.  He’s still the same Proko.”  Kavinsky shrugged, chugged the last of his Coke, and tossed the can to the floor.  “Take it as a compliment.  You knew him so well you were able to create him, flesh and bone.  Doesn’t that say something?”

Kavinsky hoped so. 

 

.

 

When they’d finished fucking for the third time that day, Kavinsky propped himself up on his elbow, staring down at Proko’s pleasantly flushed cheeks. 

Kavinsky couldn’t help himself.  He leaned down, barely brushing his lips against Proko’s and hovered above him.  Proko blinked up at him with wide, beautiful eyes, so light they were almost clear.

Without a second thought, Kavinsky placed his hand over Proko’s throat.  At first he just touched it there.  Then, upon feeling Proko gulp underneath him, he squeezed.  Not enough to hurt, just testing, wondering. 

Proko’s face began to pink a bit more.  His long eyelashes fluttered prettily.  Kavinsky pressed their lips together more firmly, shallow and closed mouth.  He pulled his hand away and fell to his side, burying his face in Proko’s neck and wrapping an arm around his waist.

“I missed you.”

“I didn’t go anywhere.”

They both knew that was a lie, but neither of them mentioned it.

 

.

 

It was another lazy night, a Thursday.  Kavinsky and Proko hadn’t gone back to school since the accident.  At this point they didn’t plan to.

The boys all lounged around the dark living room.  They passed nearly empty liquor bottles around and chased the burn with the heady smoke from a joint.

 Kavinsky sat on the couch while the other four laid on the floor, completely relaxed.

Kavinsky couldn’t relax.

The thing was, Kavinsky hadn’t touched the stuff in weeks.  Not since he’d woken up with a second chance waiting for him.  He refused.  That shit, the booze and the drugs, they were what took Proko from him in the first place.  He wouldn’t risk it again.  Not ever.

The boys noticed but didn’t say anything, content know there was more for them.

Eventually, though, Proko crawled off the floor and climbed into Kavinsky’s lap.  His eyes were impossibly wide and deep and dark from the drugs or something else.

He pressed himself down into K’s crotch, grinding their cocks together in an unrepentant display despite the other boys being inches away. 

Proko took another hit from the joint.  “Want some?”

“No,” Kavinsky replied gruffly.

“Oh come on.  We used to do this stuff all the time, remember?”  He took another hit, eyes red and wet.  He blew the smoke into K’s face.  “Just one?”

_This is wrong, wrong, wrong, all wrong,_ Kavinsky’s mind cried.  The real Proko would never do this.  It was always the other way around, K pressing joints and bottles and random dream pills into Proko’s hands and waiting for him to swallow.  And Proko always did.  But he never demanded that K do the same. 

“Get the fuck off me,” he growled, pushing Proko off and onto the couch cushions.  “I’m going to bed.” 

He walked past Proko, firmly ignoring the overwhelming hurt on his face.  From halfway up the stairs Kavinsky called down, “don’t follow.” 

Proko didn’t.

Kavinsky slammed his bedroom door and flopped down onto the bed.  The room was pitch black but he couldn’t bring himself to fall asleep without Proko beside him.  The sheets were too cold, the bed too empty.

_This was a mistake,_ he thought to himself, mentally slapping himself for being so stupid.  _He was a mistake.  He isn’t real.  He’s not my Proko._

The thoughts repeated themselves over and over again for hours until he heard the bedroom door creak open and felt a warm body curl up next to his. He kept his eyes closed, feigning sleep.

Proko pressed close to Kavinsky’s side.  K could feel him staring but refused to look.  He felt gentle a finger slide down the slope of his nose, trace his scarred eyebrow.  The warmest caress.

“I know you think I’m not real.  But I am.  I’m him.”  A breath.  “I’m me.”

_No you’re not_ , K thought.  But his mind was already going dark, body responding to Proko’s presence and falling into slumber.  _You’re not him_.

 

That night Kavinsky dreamed of guns.

 

.

 

By the time Kavinsky was finally able to force his eyes open, the clock read 1:37 p.m. and Prokopenko still sleeping peacefully beside him. 

Kavinsky felt the cold metal of his dream gun against his palm.  It would be easy, so easy.  Just turn and shoot.  This whole mess would be over.  The real Proko would be gone and so would this fake Proko beside him. 

Kavinsky forced his mind to process the request, to turn his body, sit up, and shoot straight into the fleshy place above Proko’s heart.  But his body wouldn’t follow orders. 

_Just end it.  This could be the end._

The thought gave him pause.  Would it be the end?  Or would another dream Proko just pop up in this one’s place?  Would the next one be this perfect?

Kavinsky forced himself to sit up and gaze down at the creature beside him.  He traced the perfect slope of Proko’s shoulders, the gentle caress of his blonde lashes against his cheek. 

He was an angel. 

But he wasn’t Proko.

Kavinsky raised the gun and held it a breath away from Proko’s forehead. 

_Pull the trigger_ , his mind screamed.  His heart beat a hundred miles a minute, his palms sweaty.  _Pull the trigger, pull the trigger, pull the trigger!_

Proko yawned, reached his arm out blindly in search for Kavinsky’s body, and furrowed his brow adorably.  He turned on his side and hugged a pillow to his chest, all without opening his eyes.  The movement sent a wave of his scent into the air, clouding Kavinsky’s senses and dropping his heart rate to practically nothing.  It felt like his heart had fallen from his chest and sunken into his stomach. 

With a horrified gasp Kavinsky flung himself off the bed and threw the gun into the back of his closet, desperate to get the weapon out of his hands.  Out of his mind. 

The noise must have startled Proko, because his eyes snapped open immediately.  “K?” he asked, voice groggy from sleep.

Kavinsky wiped his clammy hands against his pants and steadied his breath.  “Yeah,” he said, crossing back over to the bed.  “I’m here baby.”  He curled his body around Proko’s, pressing them together at every inch.  “I’m right here.”


End file.
